


First and Last

by Lenore



Category: Revenge (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Backstory, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nolan isn't sure what he's expecting when he meets Amanda for the first time, what he's hoping for—sister, friend, lifeline to David—but he drives to the juvenile facility with his heart in his throat, definitely hoping for something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First and Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashcat/gifts).



The first time Nolan meets David Clarke, he goes armed with a business plan and a feeble ploy.

"My appointment was definitely for 11:30," Nolan insists to the receptionist, a sleek-haired brunette who radiates disdain, the stepsister of every college girl who has ever looked right through him. "Can't you check the calendar again?"

"It's not exactly rocket science," she says snippily. "There's no appointment here."

"Well, maybe you can check with Mr. Clarke. He may have forgotten to put it on his calendar." Nolan doesn't bother to keep the condescension out of his voice.

The receptionist levels a long, annoyed look at him, and he hunkers down, letting her know: _Not going anywhere_.

"Fine," she says, with a put-upon sigh. "Have a seat."

He sits and sits and sits. Whenever the receptionist happens to glance his way, he plasters on a big, false smile. _Still here, not going anywhere_. He tries to imagine how different the welcome might be if she knew who his father was, but he hasn't used his father's name since he was thirteen years old.

 _He's not a bad man_ , Nolan's mother used to say, when she was scraping together the rent for their rundown one-bedroom apartment, when the heat got cut off because there wasn't any money, when she started making weekly stops at the local food bank.

Nolan spent his entire childhood watching his mother fade away until there was nothing left of her.

"Nolan Ross?" David Clarke says when he makes an appearance at last. "We had an appointment?" There's a mix of curiosity and amusement in his expression. Clearly, he knows the phantom appointment is bullshit.

"Oh hey, Mr. Clarke." Nolan scrambles to his feet to shake hands, happy that David Clarke reminds him nothing of his father. "We _could_ have an appointment if you're interested in the future of technology."

Clarke gives Nolan a closer look, his expression open and friendly, his blue eyes shrewd, assessing. In the pocket of Nolan's jeans is his fake ID. It says he's a senior at MIT, which is true, and twenty-one, which won't be the case for another four years. He's not sure why he brought it along. David Clarke is hardly going to card him.

"Come on back," Clarke says at last, ushering the way.

The corner office is at least twice the size of Nolan's dorm room. Two of the walls are windows, and sunlight floods in, the fiery orange flare of late afternoon, glinting off the chrome and glass furniture, making everything glow. This is the future that Nolan has always intended for himself, ever since he was eight years old, since that morning when his father packed his bags and took one final, peremptory glance around their house, the way people do when they leave a place with no intention of ever looking back.

Clarke waves his hand at a chair, and Nolan notices the group of photographs occupying a place of honor on the desk, all of the same little girl, towheaded and sunny. Obviously, she is what's most important to David Clarke. Nolan wonders what will fill the picture frames when he's the one behind the big desk. Nanotechnology doesn't exactly photograph well.

"I have a business plan." Nolan hands over the carefully assembled binder. "The only thing more rare than a true technological breakthrough, as you know, is finding an unmet market need. If you combine the two, which Nolcorp does, it's more than an opportunity to build a successful company—it's the chance to own an entire industry."

In the few other meetings Nolan has been able to wrangle, he's been treated like some upstart kid wasting everyone's time. David Clarke listens attentively, paging slowly through the proposal, concentration pinching his forehead.

"There's definitely merit here," he concludes, and for a moment gravity loses its grip on Nolan, and he's dizzy with the possibilities. Then Clarke brings him crashing back down. "But I can't recommend that the firm put up the venture capital. I'm sorry."

The disappointment is so thick Nolan thinks he might choke on it. He can barely get out, "Well, thanks for your time."

Clarke holds up a hand. "I do, however, have some money of my own to invest. I've just been waiting for the right opportunity. I can put up this amount." He scribbles on a piece of paper and pushes it across the desk to Nolan, who tries not to stare at it frog-eyed.

 _This is business_ , he reminds himself.

"I could offer you a one-third share of the company for that," Nolan says, as coolly as he can when his heart is beating so hard his throat hurts.

Clarke smiles, with a hint of admiration that Nolan has the balls to try to negotiate. "Let's make it forty percent."

"You drive a hard bargain," Nolan says slowly, with put-on reluctance, and then blurts out, "I'll take it." He whips out his hand to shake on it, half-afraid that the offer might suddenly disappear, that the last hour of his life is possibly just a figment of his imagination.

David Clarke's grip is real, though. "I expect great things from you, Nolan."

This is something his own father has never said—never will, and suddenly Nolan's throat hurts again.

On the way out, he allows himself a knowing smirk at the receptionist, because smugness is an emotion he's far more comfortable with. She gives him an uncertain look, possibly regretting her earlier lack of hospitality, and his smirk grows wider. _Yes, you will be working for me one day. Until I fire you, anyway._ Maybe those empty picture frames of his don't really matter so much after all.

* * *

The first time Nolan visits David in prison, he brings a photograph of Amanda, which is promptly confiscated by the guards. "Until we can verify it's not dangerous," says the burliest, most paranoid guard of them all, with a slit-eyed look at Nolan, as if he might be a threat to national security.

David receives the photo eventually. "I put it up on the wall in my—where I can see it. Thank you for bringing it. Now tell me about Nolcorp."

That's what he always wants to talk about, as if they are catching up over beers, not separated by bullet-proof plexi-glass in a graying room etched with desperation, beneath fluorescent lights that seem to flicker a message: _No way out_.

David is allowed visitors once a week for exactly twenty-five minutes. Nolan never misses a week. No one else ever comes. He drives his battered old VW bus the three hours to the prison, wears his same ancient jeans and threadbare T-shirts, even after Nolcorp has started to take off. Everyone has always underestimated him—everyone but David—and he's slowly learning the value of that, learning to wear it like a mask, wield it like a weapon. He saunters past the guards with their dagger eyes, smiling a big, fuck-you smile, as if he can't even feel their hatred.

At every visit, David looks a little more like a ghost, disappearing in plain sight, just like Nolan's mother, although Nolan does his best to push that knowledge to some distant corner of his brain.

Until the day David makes that impossible.

"I didn't do it."

It comes out so quietly that for a moment Nolan's not sure what he's heard, and then the bottom drops out of his stomach. If David wants to talk about that, then—

"I know," he says, voice rough, catching in his throat. He keeps the larger truth to himself: _It wouldn't matter to me if you were guilty_.

"I need you to do something for me." David leans in, his eyes fever-bright with urgency, the bones too visible beneath his skin. "I need you to look after Amanda for me."

 _Goodbye_.

Nolan shakes his head, as if this might change something. "No, no, she needs you. You're her father. You have to—"

"Nolan." It's not stern, but there's gravity to the word. Nolan likes to imagine that it's fatherly. "Promise me."

He takes a breath, his ribs too tight. "Okay. Sure. You know I will."

David sinks back in his battered plastic chair, and he seems to deflate, the fight seeping out of him like air from a ruined tire, until he's somehow less than life-sized.

Nolan drives the three hours home holding an image behind his eyes, the picture of Amanda, not the way he imagined it hanging on the bare wall of a cell, a bitter reminder, but proudly displayed in a pool of sunlight on the corner of that big desk. He likes to believe that David making him promise was his way of taking care of Nolan too.

When he receives the photo in the mail, ragged around the edges, three days after David's death blares from every television—he knows he was right.

* * *

Nolan isn't sure what he's expecting when he meets Amanda for the first time, what he's hoping for—sister, friend, lifeline to David—but he drives to the juvenile facility with his heart in his throat, definitely hoping for something.

What he's not prepared for is this complete stranger, this angry girl who bears no resemblance to that shining face in the photograph.

"Your father sent me," he tells her, stupidly hopeful that this will make a difference.

She regards him suspiciously, with flat eyes, and it comes as a surprise when she actually gets into the passenger seat.

"So. You must be pretty glad to get out of there, huh?" he says while they drive.

She doesn't answer, doesn't spare a glance at the passing scenery, as if the outside world holds no interest for her. As if she is a universe of one.

"Your father was a great man. I got to know him pretty well. He was that rare person who could truly imagine the future. If only people knew the truth about him." He realizes that he's babbling, but he can't seem to stop himself.

The urge to prattle only grows worse when they get to his apartment. "The kitchen is through there and the second door down the hall is the bathroom." He points. "In here is the living room. The couch is a lot more comfortable than it looks." She cuts him with a glance, and he hastily adds. "Which is why I'll be sleeping here, and you can have the bedroom."

She walks the circuit of the room like she's slumming, picks up a Nolcorp paperweight, and puts it down again, dismissively. _You just got out of kid jail. Maybe tone down the princess act_.

"I've been meaning to look for another place, a _much_ nicer place, but I've been too busy. Nolcorp's net worth just hit one hundred million dollars. Forty percent of that is yours. That was my agreement with your father. Without him—he's the only one who ever believed in me."

Amanda stares at him blankly.

"Are you hungry?" It's the only thing he can think to say. "Come on."

She follows him to the kitchen and paces around restlessly, like an animal that can't get used to not being caged. He tries not to find that unnerving as he warms up canned tomato soup, cuts cheese for sandwiches, the full extent of his culinary abilities. They sit, and Amanda spoons listlessly at her soup, nibbles at a corner of her sandwich. Nolan doesn't have much of an appetite himself.

"Well, that was successful," he says, clearing the dishes, dumping the food into the trash.

She drifts away from the table, and he trails her into the living room. "So, now what? There must be a lot of things you wanted to do but couldn't while—maybe get some new clothes? There's money. For you. From your father's investment. I told you that already. Or maybe, you could—"

"What do you want?"

It's almost startling that she can actually speak.

"I told you. David—your father asked me to—"

"What do you really want?" Her eyes are bright and flinty. "Everyone has an angle."

"Hey. No. I just—" Sympathy makes him awkward, and he lays a hand on her arm, a feeble gesture, but he doesn't know what else to do.

She stiffens at the touch, and her expression twists into something ugly. "You're just like everybody else, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like to fuck David Clarke's daughter."

Nolan stares, horrified, and jerks his hand back. "No, _no_ , that's not—at all—God, how old are you even?"

She shrugs. "Does it matter? Someone should get something they want." The words drip with bitterness, and then she's on him, kissing, if it can be called that when there are so many sharp teeth involved.

"Hey, wait. Come on—"

She pushes him down onto the sofa, stronger than she looks. "Where are they?" She starts opening drawers, rifling in them. "I know you've got condoms stashed around here somewhere." She tilts her head, and her smile is a cruel parody of the one from the photograph. "Hope springs eternal, right Nolan?"

"Okay, look—" Nolan has tried to be patient, has tried to understand, but enough is enough. "You don't get to come in here and—"

Amanda finds the condoms and takes off her shirt, and then all he can do is stare.

Her mouth twists up sarcastically. "That's what I thought."

She kicks off her jeans, moving so quickly she's straddling him before he can stop her, kissing and grabbing at him, leaving bruises. It's not sex—it's payback, for every shitty thing that's ever happened to her, and he's just a convenient vessel. Whatever he was expecting, this certainly isn't it. She gets his jeans open and rolls the condom on, pushes her panties aside and sinks down onto him. For a moment, he's not sure if he's ever hated anyone more.

 _You think you're the only one who had a childhood that fucking sucked? The only one who's lost someone?_ He clenches his hands on her hips, reciprocating the bruises, and fucks up into her, again and again, inexplicably furious that _this_ is David Clarke's beloved daughter.

Nolan's fury only makes her more feral, and she grinds down onto him, bites at his mouth, fucking for everything she's worth, like she's trying to get it out of her system. There shouldn't be anything hot about any of this but—Nolan squeezes his eyes tightly closed when he comes, not wanting to see her face.

She rolls off him and starts to pull on her clothes before he's even caught his breath. "That's the last time that ever happens," she says, clipped and business-like, as she zips her jeans.

He rolls his eyes. "There shouldn't have been a first time."

"I need you to do some things for me." She's as emotionless now as she was out of control only a few moments earlier, and Nolan can't decide which is scarier. "I'm Emily Thorne now, not Amanda Clarke." She slips an ID out of her pocket and pushes it at him. "Make it happen."

He snatches it from her. "Anything else, Princess?"

"Yes. I need research on these people." She roots around in her duffel and comes up with a list. "Everything you can find. Wow me with how clever you are."

He reads through the long list of names, and understanding settles like a cold weight in his stomach. "No, Amanda—Emily, whatever—this isn't what your father would—"

"Don't ever say that to me again." Her voice is glacial, but the look in her eyes—that feral rage isn't gone, just temporarily restrained.

"Fine. I'll do your bidding, but it might take some time."

"You've got a week." She grabs up her bag, stuffs her jacket into it, and starts for the door.

"Hey, what—" He follows on her heels. "Where are you going? Can you even drive?"

"I've got things to take care of. I'll be in touch."

"Wait." He doesn't know why this makes her pause, but it does. "I have something that belongs to you. I'll get it." He heads back to the bedroom, takes the photograph from his desk. He's looked at it every day since David sent it, but he slips it out of the frame now and carries it back down the hall to Amanda. "Here. I don't need it anymore."

She glances down at the photo, and it's several moments before she glances back up. When she does, it seems like there's something she wants to say, or ask, something, but all she does is nod and keep going. Nolan watches as she heads down the block and around the corner. A part of him wishes that this were it, the last he'd ever see of her, his promise fulfilled, no other reason to get pulled into her orbit.

But Nolan isn’t an idiot. He knows himself. He knows this is only the beginning.


End file.
